


To touch his hair

by Lam Vũ (blaues_universum)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Smut, M/M, Mpreg, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blaues_universum/pseuds/Lam%20V%C5%A9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle of Five Armies, Thorin could not see, and Thranduil could not speak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hundreds thanks and hearts to my beta-reader, who prefers to stay anonymous <3 
> 
>  
> 
> All names are made up. I don't know Sindarin or Khuzdul so I usually just put two words together...
> 
> Comments are appreciated :)

**To touch his hair**

**Chapter 1  
**

 

 

 

_Jeder Verlust ist für ein Glück zu achten, der höhere Gewinne zuwege bringt._

Every loss yieds also the luck of accomplishing better gainings. - Jacob Grimm

 

 

 

Thorin dreamed. 

 

There was sunshine on his face, warm and fresh and blinding. There was grass beneath his back, soft and damp and sighing. There was a song sung by the most gentle voice finding its way to his ears, dissolving the pain inside his head. There was a bitter-sweet taste in his mouth, a touch of delightful sourness combined with acridness as a tiny piece of unripened apple. 

 

It had been a long time since the universe had treated him with such heavenly surroundings, so Thorin just laid still and enjoyed every drop of liquid warmth falling onto him. Then there was skin under his fingertips. Not hardened, or as disgustingly sticky as orcs'. Not as soft and fragile as humans'. The hand he was holding in his own was cold and firm, but at the same time soothing. This gave Thorin a simple smile, that he could marvel at the feeling of finally having another's hand touch his, after such a long long time. 

 

All of this made his mind return to a summer day in the past, when he had still been the prince of Erebor. Even in his dream, he still recalled Erebor. _E-re-bor_ , every single syllable rang through his soul and slowly scratched across his heart, leaving traces of imminent blood behind. He remembered lying on the lush greensward of _Gabiltharak -_ the largest, most beautiful, and most significant garden of all the dwarven kingdoms – and listening to birds chirping, letting the sun tan his skin and ease his troubled mind with its golden drops. He remembered eating green apples that were given by those big, singing trees in the garden, the mixture of sweetness and sourness and juiciness touching his tongue, his teeth, his palate, the inside of his throat, the inside of his mind, the inside of his heart. He remembered sitting under the most ancient tree, wondering if it had been there before the world had started, and looking up at...

 

Suddenly there were voices calling him. _Go away_ , he thought, _can an exhausted man not rest a little in this paradise_. But the voices just grew louder, came nearer. Then there came hands laying on top of his unmoving, hurting arms. 

 

 

„I just saw his eyelids moving!“

 

„Uncle!“

 

„Why is my uncle not waking up? I knew elves were not to be trusted!“ 

 

„Do not talk to my father in this manner, dwarf!“ 

 

„He should be awake and fine by now!“

 

„Could you lower your voice, Fili...“

 

„Just shut up, all of you, all he needs is some rest, not your shouting at each other!“ 

 

 

As the voices finally died down, Thorin's meadow was gone, along with those long fingers that were interlaced with his, and every thought on the once beautiful, wonderful Erebor. He groaned and moaned, trying and failing to tuck himself again into the dream. At his reaction, someone raised their voice again, calling him, ripping him away from all the sunshine and grass and songs and touches, from singing trees, from the taste of a ripe green apple, throwing him back into painful reality. 

 

His consciousness was coming back, along with the terrible headache and the dryness of his tongue. He could even feel the presence of the dwarves, all breathing heavily, and heard Kili call him repeatedly. Thick, warm air surrounded him; but not as comfortable as that of his dream. This air is full of heat that should come from fire, from burning things, from pain and rage. This air, despite its heat, is turning his mind cold. 

 

Trying to even his breath, he called for some water. A strong arm helped him sit up. A hand, cold and firm and smelling of burnt leaves brought a full cup to his mouth, another supporting his back. These hands warmed his senses a bit, the water soothed his chapped lips, and gradually he regained his ability to speak. 

 

 

„Uncle, how are you feeling now?“

 

„Thorin, are you ok?“

 

„Oh, he is not dead yet.“

 

„Shut your mouth, elf!“

 

„Could you all please just shut up now?“

 

 

Again, they stopped after hearing the voice of reason – which Thorin recognized as Bilbo's. „I...“, he breathed out, trying to will his tongue to speak, „I'm okay.“ In actuality, he was not. His mind still longed for the lost days of the past. He wanted to close his eyes and just fall asleep again, so he could once more feel the ethereal bliss of his dream. 

 

But then he heard some of them cry out happily, someone try to prevent his nephews from jumping onto their uncle to give him a hug, and someone declare the need of a feast. At this he chuckled a little. Feeling the affection from his nephews and his friends brought him strength, and he convinced himself that it was time to wake up and deal with whatever that was coming at him and his people. Especially when they had to lead a life in a war. Or after the war. 

 

 

„I know the dark is quite comfortable for all of us, but could you spark a light, for now I miss it dearly.“, Thorin said, blinking several times in preparation. 

 

 

Silence suddenly blanketed the atmosphere inside the tent again. No one moved to do as he said. Great, Thorin thought, I hope they remember I am still their king. 

 

 

„Uncle“, Kili said after a few minutes had passed, his voice trembling, „we already have.“ 

 

 

Thorin closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly as if to prevent any incoming strain of thought. 

 

 

 

 

\---o0o---

 

 

 

 

Thorin had been informed that they had been staying in a camp not far from the Mountain. The dwarves, the elves, and some of the men still stayed for a temporal recovery, and to regroup before returning to their respective homelands. Oín had been working with the elven healers to find a cure for his eyes, or at least the cause of his injury. It had been almost a week since he had woken up, but they had not yet found an explaination for the loss of his sight. 

 

Being in the dark gave Thorin much time and space for his personal reflection, when he was not busy scheming, ordering the dwarves, or giving them tasks to do- so that they can be done with the other armies, rearrange themselves, and return _home_. He did think of many things, but not a single thought about his blindness. He was even surprised of his calmness, as one is supposed to have a negative reaction in his case. I would not be depressed over such an incident, he thought. Surviving the battle was a great luck, and for that he was relatively contented. 

 

At first his thoughts went back to Erebor. It was right there, he had touched the door of his home, but been pushed away: by those wretched, repugnant orcs, by the greed of those haughty elves, foolish men, and even of his own kin. He didn't know what he had thought of then, what had kept him from being generous and sharing and helping, as a honorable king should do. He had accused Thranduil of lacking honor by a traitorous act, yet he had done the same, or even committed one worse. This realisation brought a shame to Thorin, along with a relentless fear. He vaguely knew the reason behind the decision that had disgraced him, but he was in a state of denial. He didn't dare to acknowledge the gold sickness that was growing inside him, like a smouldering fire started from just a thrilling spark that was brought into existence by the sight of all the gold and jewlery, all the immense treasure of the mighty Erebor. 

 

_Erebor. Erebor. Erebor._

 

The name, the calling hurt him deeply, though it was not at fault. That was Thror's, Thrain's and his. With the greediness that ran deeply in the family, together they had ruined Erebor. 

Beautiful, wonderful Erebor, a land that had once shone brighter than the sun itself. 

 

Then he wondered if he could ever come back without the weight on his chest, the weight of guilt and regret and fear. He wondered if he was worthy of the land where he had been born and lived and partially destroyed. The land that had raised him and loved him, but to which he had done terrible things in the name of love. 

 

He wondered, if Erebor would forgive him. 

 

 

 

 

\---o0o---

 

 

 

Perhaps the only thing that kept him from crying and drowning himself in a river of depressing thoughts was the appearance of his healer. A man, for no woman could have those firm, sword-calloused hands with such a big bone structure, and probably not a dwarf, because the long, lean arms couldn't belong to one of his race, and additionally, he didn't smell like one. He might very well be an elf, with that unearthly smell of wood and burnt leaves which always eased the pain in his head. He came in daily ever since the third day past Thorin's waking- did the daily health checking, and gave him food and water. Then he just sat silently beside his bed, probably reading a book or some scripts, and only gave him water or things to lessen his pain when being asked. They didn't talk. 

 

To be more precise, Thorin did talk. He asked questions but received no answer. They were normal questions like, „Who are you?“, „What are you?“, a sarcastic, „How are you today?“ (yes, that was sarcastic). And sometimes, when he was bored and wanted to avoid the stabbing thoughts about Erebor, he tried to initiate a conversation with, „How are things today?“, „How is the weather?“, „What are you doing?“. The other always stayed silent, and didn't bother with giving him an reaction. After some time he gave up on trying to communicate with the unknown elf (presumably, he just wanted to think that it was an elf for no reason). He then just asked for a name, so that he could call the elf and not be impolite. No answer though. 

 

As he started to get frustrated and angry, thinking that elf's indifference was an act of humiliating him – the new King under the Mountain, he got news from his company. They visited him few times a day, but couldn't stay for long because they also had to take part in activities after the battle, such as: cleaning, packing, carrying out Thorin's tasks, and preparing things in order to come back and rebuild their homeland. Fili was practically dragged out of his tent after every visit. 

 

 

„We, well, we just got an offer from the Elven-King, my King, and we hope that you would consider it.“, a dwarf said, and from his voice Thorin recognized Ori. 

 

„What makes you think I would accept an offer from the elves, my friend? Do you not remember the last time I got _something_ offered?“, he said. 

 

„But uncle, elves might not be that...bad, once you get to know them. And your healer is also an elf.“, Kili said. 

 

„Yes, yes, I was going to ask you about that. You let an elf tend to me?“, Thorin tried to be stern, although he was surprised that he didn't think of any objection untill then. At least he was right about that man being an elf.

 

„You didn't seem to be opposed, uncle, and frankly, we must admit that those elves are better than us dwaves in healing,“ Fili said, „well, just a little bit.“, he added after receiving a glare from Oín. 

 

„Yes, and you look quite comfy around that elf...“

 

„I do not.“, Thorin cut Kili off, „Now tell me what those elves want.“

 

„The Elven-King, Thranduil, offers that you go to Mirkwood for the healing of your eyes.“ Ori said. „With as many companies as you want.“ 

 

„ He is surely mentally affected after the battle,“ Thorin sneered, „Why would I want to go back to that forest again? And with him of all...creatures. Surely he wouldn't think that I'm stupid to the extent, of willingly making myself a hostage in his kingdom.“

 

„He said that it was an act of mending a broken allegiance“, Ori said, „and nevertheless we must admit that elves are experts in healing. The Elven-King appeared to be quite...generous and willing to make a change.“ 

 

„You seem to be eager on pushing me away from my kingdom, Ori“, Thorin raised his voice, „You ought to remember that I'm still your king, and the king of my land. I have my rights and duties to return to it.“

 

„You are my king, yes“, Ori said after a few silent seconds, „but you are also my friend. And I care for you dearly, as all of your companions here. You need to be healed.“ 

 

„I must remind you that even without my sight I could still be doing my duties as king.“, Thorin's voice was turning rageful. He sounded offended and hurt, as he thought his comrades were just trying to prevent him from returning, after all he had done with them- _for_ them. 

 

„We strongly believe that you are capable of that“, Ori reasoned patiently, „but there is Dain, Thorin. I know why you called him over, and without him we might not have won the battle, but he is quite a vicious creature, and day by day he has proven to have many evil schemes. You are in a fragile state, not yet used to your new...loss of sight. And I believe that in Mirkwood you would be safer.“ 

 

„Who would fullfil my duties then? And what makes you sure of the elves' sincerity?“, Thorin asked. 

 

„Our princes could carry out your tasks, and we have means to communicate- although it would be harder- it is still possible.“, Ori paused a bit before continuing with, „And we saw happenings with our own eyes, Thorin. We believe that the Elven-King would keep you safe.“

 

If his blindness hadn't bothered Thorin before, it now did. He hated having disabilities. He hated not knowing. He hated that he might have to, once again, travel far from Erebor (although Mirkwood is not that far, the land laid right beside Erebor, he tried to reason with himself). 

 

He hated that he was already considering going to Mirkwood. 

 

 

 

 

\---o0o---

 

 

 

 

Thorin decided to return to Erebor. Blind or not, fragile or not, he had to come back. He was king and had to reclaim his kingdom, he needed to see Erebor and sit on the throne. (Although the dwarves had secretly brought him the Arkenstone so no one could claim _his_ throne while he was away.)

 

But that night, while he was caressing the Arkenstone underneath his garments, right next to his heart, he was startled by the sound of his healer entering the tent. Tharan, (Kili had told him the elf's name, he thought it sounded stupid, and also reminded him of „Thranduil“,) came to his bedside to check on him for the last time that day. Thorin hugged the Arkenstone tightly to his chest, wanting to keep it away from the eyes of an outsider. The Arkenstone was still seen, nevertheless, when the elf helped him clean his body and change his bandages. He placed a hand on Thorin's arm, as if for assurance, and proceeded like that precious diamond didn't even exist. 

 

Thorin had never noticed it before, but perhaps his blindness and his hectic mind were making him more sensitive that night. The feel of those hands on his skin, his bare skin, made him partially want to jerk away, and yet simultaneously want more. They were cool and soothing, tenderly touching his shirt, his biceps, the hair and skin on his chest, then the lids of his closed eyes. Thorin let out a pleased sigh as they brushed the exposed skin around the rim of his wounds. 

 

 

„Would you still be my... healer if I came to Mirkwood?“, Thorin asked idly, half opening his eyes although he couldn‘t see a thing, but got no answer, apart from a small humming sound- probably from the elf's throat. 

 

„Is that a yes, or a no?“, he asked again. 

 

 

This time a hand took his and put it on a strong, smooth jaw. He felt the elf's jaw and chin, skin cool but _alive_ under his fingertips. He felt a nod from the elf, his hand also touching a patch of skin on his neck. Yes, this elf would still stay beside his bed, even in Mirkwood. 

 

After the elf, Tharan, had left, Thorin spent the night remembering those touches, keeping the cool, smooth feeling in his mind. And in the morning, he informed the dwarves that he would go to Mirkwood, with a Mr. Bilbo Baggins as his sole companion. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is finally out, thanks to my lovely beta-reader <3
> 
> I also thank you for all of your kind kudos and comments, I'll try my best to give you an interesting read :3

 

 

 

The Bagginses were never ones for any sort of sneaky business. They were decent folk who lived in comfortable hobbit-holes and had delicious cakes and tea. That was their whole lives' plan. Or so Bilbo had thought. 

 

The unexpected adventures - and dangerous, thrilling ones they had been – had proven him wrong. As a half-Took he was very fit for a life outside of his hobbit-hole, and could also be very sneaky when he wanted to. Although he missed his home dearly, he was not sure if he could decline the invitation to a new journey, especially when it came from two kings. And a troop of dwarves. 

 

Thranduil – the Elven-King – had invited him to Mirkwood to enjoy at least one feast of the elves owing to his „support“ before and during the battle (and his being a kind, decent hobbit). He had considered politely declining the invitation for he had been missing his home dearly; he just wanted to go back and- firstly- have a good sleep on his comfy bed, then wake up and have his own cakes and tea. He could practically smell the tea leaves and cakes right in the middle of his fantasy, but then the dwarves had come into his tent and offered him the honour of accompanying their king to Mirkwood (he really couldn't believe the audacity of those dwarves). So he had had to go meet Thorin, all the while trying to conceal his anger, (he shouldn't be angry or sulk, because he was a nice hobbit) and find a way to say „no“ without putting the Dwarf-King into a sour mood. But as soon as he had put his hobbit feet in Thorin's tent, he had been called over and offered a very sincere apology (quite a heart-warming one, he had thought), then more sincerely asked for the favour of being his companion to Thranduil's kingdom, which he hadn't dared to reject because that would have spoiled the mood (and probably the new-found friendship between them). 

 

Once again he had to get on a pony and ride to another land, and all the while be sneaky and keep an eye on both kings. (Thranduil suggested that he could somehow help Thorin while they resided in Mirkwood, but to „Please be subtle for the Dwarven-King has his own dignity.“ –as the letter read. He also suggested that Bilbo could somehow be a good friend and make sure the Dwarven-King didn't feel lonely amongst „a bunch of elves“, but they both understood that this was really a quest of protecting His Majesty, for Bilbo and Gandalf often had to pull Thorin out of quite unexpected troubles. The dwarves – Thorin's old Company – hoped that he could do both.) But by the acts of Thranduil during their camping days, and the looks Legolas had been sending Thorin, he already knew there was no trouble to come. 

 

That was the story of how Mr. Bilbo Baggins came to be riding alongside the Dwarven-King. 

 

The journey had so far proven to be uneventful. Although the darkness was not totally destroyed, the absence of the orcs and many other foul creatures gave the air around them a more pleasant smell, even thick with weariness as it still was. The land they were passing by was doubtless still exhausted, for even its trees didn't sing among the wind. No creature was to be seen, except the elven army, Thorin, and Bilbo, as they made their way to Mirkwood. 

 

Bilbo had disliked the inharmonious silence among the troop, and therefore became accustomed to the elves (he was apparently not scared of Thranduil any more), and had started to chat them up. The younger elves were friendly and appeared more than excited to listen to Bilbo narrating his life as a hobbit in the neighbourhood of The Hill. Quite a good taleteller he was, for even Legolas expressed his interest on how the hobbit had made his cakes and tea every day, and how the hobbits' life had been so peaceful and ordinary that many of them had chosen gossiping as a hobby. Then he went on with the tales around the rumours. _Poor folk_ , Bilbo thought, _they must have been strictly restrained from going into the world outside to be able to laugh at the Brandybuck's incident_. Soon most of the troop was chatting, laughing, singing, joking- doing anything to lift their mood up; apart from Thorin - who had been grumpy since dawn, Thranduil – who was definitely never in the mood for a laugh ever, and the Elven-King's personal guards – who certainly did not dare to break the silence around their king. 

 

 

„How far do we still have to go?“, Bilbo asked; his stomach was grumbling so he hoped they could soon get to the elven fortress. 

 

„No worries, Mr. Baggins, we have only twenty miles more at most. You will be in time for tea.“, answered a young dark elf, who then laughed with his fellows after hearing the growl from Bilbo's stomach. 

 

„So glad to hear that.“, mumbled the hobbit. 

 

 

Suddenly the laughter died. Bilbo halted his pony, expecting a surprise attack, for the whole troop had stopped moving. But no, there was no attack. It was just Thranduil lifting his hand up, ordering his army to stop and get off their horses. „We will make a stop here. To rest.“, Legolas voiced the command, making Bilbo wonder when the prince had gone up to ride aside his father. 

 

After getting off his pony, Bilbo lent a hand to the grunting Dwarven-King, leading him to a clear spot under a big tree to sit down and avoid touching where his battle-wounds lay. For that he received a gentle hand-squeeze as a form of thanks. It made him fairly surprised, because Thorin had always been careful to express his gratitude, and never appeared to be a gentle dwarf. 

 

What happened next made him even more surprised. Before he had a chance to ask Thorin if he needed anything, a team of elven-healers rushed to the Dwarven-King’s side, offering to take a look at his wounds. The dwarf shook his head, waving a hand to indicate for them to stay away. But now at a closer distance Bilbo could clearly see at least one of Thorin's wounds had been torn open, there was blood seeping through his cloak and painting his fingers red. He could also see that the king was in such pain that he couldn't utter a single word, instead waving a hand to push the healers away, closing his eyes to keep the stoic expression on his face. Those healers, under Thranduil's watching eyes, almost begged the stubborn dwarf to let them fix the wound, but he would not listen. 

 

 

„Where is my healer?“, Thorin asked demandingly, „Only my healer is allowed to touch me.“ 

 

„But king Thorin, we are your healers!“, one elf answered, somewhat frustrated. 

 

 

Before Thorin could give a reply, Bilbo squeezed his hand and whispered „Please“. The hobbit had already understood what, or more exactly, who Thorin was asking for, along with Legolas - whose mood had turned worse after talking to his father, and Thranduil – who was watching the whole incident with an amused look on his face. 

 

So the Dwarven-King finally gave in to the pain and let the elves do their work. 

 

 

 

\---o0o---

 

 

 

That time Thorin was almost glad that he had Bilbo by his side. 

 

As the elves tended to his wounds, Thorin finally understood what Ori had said. He had said Thorin had been fragile, needed to be healed- and he had been totally right. 

 

At the moment he had had to accept the kind hobbit's helping hand, he had vaguely been aware of his vulnerable state. Then that awareness had hit him, hard, while facing the elven-healers. 

 

Dwarves are tough creatures. They could still fight while blind, mute, deaf, or while being victim of many other disabilities. They could also endure tremendous pain, although they didn't lack the sensation as the orcs did. They rarely got scared, and if they were, they tried as hard as possible to conceal their fear. 

 

For a moment, Thorin could have thought that he had not been a dwarf anymore, let alone the Dwarven-King. Because as one of the elves had touched him, he had been inwardly panicking; he had not sensed the familiar touches, nor smelled the familiar smell that occasionally came to him even in his sleep. Because he could have dealt with attacks and hits from any enemy, but willingly letting unknown shadows touch him while lowering his defence was simply not an instinctive act. Because none of them _was_ Tharan. 

 

He hadn't known what to do, what to _feel_. So he had tried to stop feeling (apart from the agony blooming on his chest, he couldn't block the pain after all) and numbly let the elvish fingers work their way onto his side. These elves had also smelled of wood and burnt leaves, but they were definitely different kinds of wood and leaf, for they hadn't had any positive impact on him. Instead, the scent of _difference_ just made him want to move away from them. Their fingers - long, lean and professional - had cleaned his wounds and changed his bandages perfectly, but they were as cold as ice, and once again reminded him that he was the lone dwarf among thousands of elves. Bilbo's warm hand couldn't give him the whole reassurance he had needed, but had nagged him of what he had truly wished for. 

 

He had surrendered to the constant longing of the touches of those unearthly-scented, sword-calloused hands. 

 

After they had finished and helped Thorin mount his pony, his toes were still sweating inside his boots. He closed his eyes tightly to prevent anyone, _anything_ from looking into them and seeing the panic creeping back into his heart. Especially Thranduil, who had probably sensed something wrong about him in the first place and ordered those vicious elves to _get to_ him in his troubled state, were those cold hands meant to make his skin crawl and _burn_?

 

The thought that Thranduil could actually be so cruel left Thorin once again so hurt and offended, even embarrassed about being played like a fool, that he didn't notice his pony had been manhandled to ride alongside another elf. 

 

 _His_ elf. 

 

The realisation made Thorin turn his head to the side a little bit, just enough for his nose to catch the specific scent, for his tongue to be able to taste a tanginess that had suddenly come from nowhere. Perhaps from the leaves, he thought. The possessiveness, the greed every king should have possessed, especially those from the line of _Durin_ , reared its poisonous head- demanding Thorin to stretch out his hand and _grasp_. 

 

Fortunately the Dwarven-King kept his hands to himself, and hid the smile slowly forming on his face with his thick mane. 

 

 

 

\---o0o---

 

 

 

Legolas had been startled as he felt a pull in his mind. His sire had been calling him. 

 

He still remembered the day Thranduil had come back from the battle. The armies had won, but the Elven-King looked defeated. The light from his eyes had gone and only came back after a day of sleep. 

 

King Thranduil rarely fell into deep slumber, or at least Legolas rarely saw him do so. His father had always been there, awake, alarming, watching his kingdom. He was somehow in tune with the forest: he felt ill when it got worse, his mood was often lifted whenever a tree was cured from whatever those foul creatures had been injecting to the woods, he smiled whenever a good wind passed by- taking the rotten smell lingering about the outskirts of the forest away. He, as the forest, could feel sick, could feel strong, could either move or just stand still, but never _sleep_. He normally just rested his eyes, when he needed to. 

 

Legolas had spent that day by his father's side watching him; letting fear creep into his heart for Thranduil's sleep had been induced by no natural cause. He had been so scared that it might have not been a rest, but a tunnel leading to the other side of this world. That Thranduil would leave him like his mother had. 

 

Luckily Thranduil had woken up, eyes bright and shining with an almost restored life-force. There had been no scar nor mark, as if the battle had never happened to him. He had also possessed no voice. 

 

Had Legolas not felt the _thing_ in his mind on that day, he could never have noticed the change in his father. He had acted as if everything had been normal and that it had just been another day, except that he couldn't speak, and instead used their blood connection to pull strings inside the prince's head. It had seemed that the Elven-King hadn't minded his injury, or at least he hadn’t shown any sign of unpleasantness. 

 

Perhaps it is just a mask, Legolas had thought. With the help of the king's own powerful magic, he could wear as many concealing masks as he desired. 

 

During their journey back to Mirkwood, Legolas had already become accustomed to their art of communication. It started with a pull, or a grasp inside, and his head was suddenly flooded with wordless information. Thranduil needed not to tell the prince what to do; he just _knew_ what he should do. 

 

So he commanded the whole troop to stop although they had been in a rush to Mirkwood and had only twenty miles to go, after shooting his father a questioning glance but daring not to voice his concern. 

 

But he needed not to ask any question, because he saw Thranduil cast the dwarf a brief glance. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
